


Frantic Writings on the Wall

by SmoothPebbles



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Flashbacks, Gen, Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Mild Blood, Panic Attacks, Wilbur Soot-centric, as much as it hurts him, the only love here is wilbur's love for l'manburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmoothPebbles/pseuds/SmoothPebbles
Summary: "Do you know the song that's written on the walls?""I do."This is how the conversation goes.With no one bothering to ask how the words found those walls in the first place.Or when he made that room at all.Or when he placed the TNT.It was all on the same night, filled with the terrible memories of a hundred others.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Frantic Writings on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to check the tags for any possible triggers and also a small warning for:  
> -Short reference to alcohol  
> -Short reference to cigarettes 
> 
> Stay safe!

He thinks it might have been the election.

Or maybe it was when the walls were torn down.

Or when the flag was burnt.

The time when it had finally become crystal clear to him how pointless it all was. 

He remembers the conversation with Tommy, standing in the woods together. The night was cold, the breeze present, and the darkness harsh as ever. He remembers how the leaves rustled just as he’d asked a question he didn’t want to answer himself:

_Were they the bad guys?_

He remembers Tommy, of course he does. His right-hand man. The annoying little brother type. The one who fought with him both as a friend and ally. The one who took an arrow to the head and gave up his discs for their country. The one who took his hand when Schlatt shouted out his first decree. 

He remembers Tommy’s hope, specifically that night. 

Tommy had uttered out a firm answer to his question, 

“No.” 

He was positive that they were right, and that they would win, that they just had to keep strong. 

  
All of his ramblings from that point were sort of like that, it was easy to drown them out as time grew thinner. 

The days began to drift into each other after that. They worked together, expanding the ravine the best they could, but it didn’t matter. Any progress they happened to make was crushed before they even got a chance to progress. At least, that’s how it felt. 

This isn’t a nation that Wil’ can be proud of. This isn’t what he fought for. “Pogtopia”. It was a joke. No. _They_ were a joke. A joke playing out in Schlatt’s own puppet show. There was no point, they were in the wrong.

They lost.

_He_ lost.

He lost it all playing games he thought he could rig to win. 

This was fair. 

But why did something like fairness even matter when his country was just a toy in another man’s hands?

He remembers Technoblade. A friend he’d forgotten, though not completely. Techno promises to help train them, to which he keeps his word- their sparring is one of the clearest things he can remember. The heat of blood pumping through his skin. The way his breath caught in his throat as adrenaline coursed through his body. 

He remembers the way Techno’s face was full of a passion he’d already lost sight of. 

He remembers the way his blood tasted as he spit it out of his mouth. 

It was no surprise Techno was the first person he’d shown his new attire to. Techno couldn’t see it as more than just new clothes, but Wil’ knew it was more than just a change in threads. When the flag was changed it was more than just a change in fabric, and it held the same weight on his shoulders. 

He doesn’t remember everything clearly, but he remembers the flashes of feelings. Flashes of his own life spiraled into this nightmare he couldn’t run from. 

It’s laughing with his friends under the hot sun and shady trees. It’s the feeling of new ink on his fingers. It’s the smell of cooling bread from the bakery.

It’s the sound of a music disc just far enough away. It’s a feeling of anger and frustration he doesn’t know how to describe. It’s the smell of the fresh potions brewing.

It’s him counting down from ten. It’s the feeling of water in his lungs. It’s the faint whiff of gunpowder.

It’s the cruel sound of laughter. It’s the feeling of an arrow in his chest. It’s again, the stench of gunpowder.

He murmurs nothings to himself, attempting to drive out the ever-present silence in his head as he looks up at the podium. He can’t remember how he’d gotten here. 

He finds himself wandering to the back, hands trailing the rocky hillside.

He feels almost calm amongst his madness, but then the smell of whiskey and cigarettes grazes his nose. 

He claws into the rocks, not caring how the skin tears at his fingers as he burrows himself inside. 

He doesn’t smell it anymore. It’s enough to drive his attention to the small room he’d created with bruised hands. 

Apart from a stray beam of moonlight that had somehow found its way into the hallway he’d dug, the room is dark. Dark and quiet. It’s all too quiet, the memories in his head dangerous and loud but only his to bear in the moment. He scrambles for feeling, something, anything other than the dirt underneath his fingernails and the pounding in his chest. 

There’s something brittle and unfamiliar that he finds himself grabbing onto. Pulling it into the light, it’s some sort of black stone, but it smudges his fingers as he holds it. 

_Chalk_. 

He holds onto it as tight as he can as the silence grows bigger and his chest grows tighter. 

As even his quickened breaths become drowned out by the silence, he reaches into his mind and pulls out a melody. A familiar tune.

It’s soft at first, mumbled out as his breathing begins to shift.

He can’t focus, the song coming out in staggered pauses.

His hand grips the wall and the black smears across it.

His eyes fixate on that movement.

He does it again, an intentional streak making its way across. 

He marks loops and whirls and slowly words start to form as the song slips through his lips to make their place on the walls.

The words are first delicate and precise, but not as the melody begins to boom from his chest. Then, the words fly from his hand as he staggers the edges of the room, covering every inch he can in the lyrics he speaks. 

He thinks he’s laughing or crying, but he couldn’t tell you which as the music overlaps his sounds of humanity. 

As he covers the walls his voice grows louder. He’s searching across the floor again, finding something with a rougher texture as he tosses the dust left of the chalk to the ground. 

_Flint._

He continues singing, searching his pockets, and sure enough, his fingers land on something just as smooth. 

_Iron._

He turns his line of sight back to the hallway, the moonlight shining on the trees across the river. 

The feeling of splinters in his hands and a new pickaxe in his grasp go ignored as he continues to sing the song. Time was hard to keep track of with the melody sounding just as lovely through his ears every time he heard it, but he remembered how the moonlight had shifted and his hands had begun to ache as he tore through endless amounts of stone. 

He stayed in the cavern even when the light began to fade from his view. He didn’t need to see to know that he was just below the country he loved more than anything. 

The smell of gunpowder was so familiar to him that he couldn’t help but smile as he placed down the bands of explosives, still singing his song though his throat had gone dry hours ago. 

It hurt, but that was familiar to him too. 

Finally trudging his legs from that place he’d wrapped in TNT and sealed with a button, he knew he wasn’t going to make it back to the ravine, but he didn’t care- he was already home. 

He collapsed onto the dirt, smiling as a strand of sunlight had grazed his written madness on the walls. 

The last notes of the song came from breathless lips before sleep finally overtook him. 

When he’d wake up later, he’d remember every word he’d written as if he’d written it in the blood of his ever-bleeding heart. 

And in a way, he had.

**Author's Note:**

> Had this idea rattling around in my brain for a while now so I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> If you did, feel free to leave a comment! They really make my day to read and I love hearing your thoughts!


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